THe Mother Bastard of our HEll IS one who will not learn to spell, Who long on paunch, and short of hair, Cannot pronounce the plain word "paire" Or "air" or "lair" or "fair" or "Nair" Or even climb a simple "stair". He thinks like someone from Paree That all these should end in "-aree" And gets offended, loud and puffy, ANd starts behaving downright stuffy If you should hold him to convention And disallow his wylde invention. Ah, fie, and pox, malodourous air Upon the lungs of yon Rapaire! Let him remain in Bastard's Hell Until he learns how people spell.

And that's because I am informed Not cleaving to the witless norm Because I know that Rapaire Is meant to rhyme with cannery It does not rhyme with solitaire It does not sound like fox and hare It sounds a note most stridently By which we call it "Rap-a-REE"

Mom, in a little over an hour they're going to shoot me. I'm going to refuse the blindfold and a last cigarette (since I gave up smoking years ago). I'll try to say something insightful and yet witty and remember, Mom -- you were in my thoughts to the last.

I hope someone writes a tear-jerking song about it, like they have about Padraig Pearse and James Connelly and all those guys.

Knowing our Man of Bookes, he is being shot by large expensive digital cameras, in order to promulgate his features to swooning housewives all over Pocatello in some glossy magazine like "Whodaho Today" or "The Pocatello Feller Weekly".

Alas, we have seen the end of Rapaire! What a tragedy! What a loss! Who is going to quarrel with Amos now on a daily basis here? Will I have to step into the breech and take over Rapaire's role in that respect? Do I have the fortitude? Am I silly enough to carry it off in proper style? Tune in at regular intervals to follow this astounding story!

The guards came for me as I sat in my dimly lit cell, the stinking water from the leaking toilet above dripping down the walls. I stood as they came in, smiling at them, knowing that they were only doing their unpleasant duty.

The priest came in with them and offered me the Last Rites, but never having sinned I gently thanked him and refused. We walked out in that long, long hallway.

As I passed the other cells the prisoners would call out "Be strong!" and "God bless you!" Finally, we arrived and after the preliminaries I boldly removed my upper garments and bare-chested faced the shooting party.

There was no reprieve. The fluoroscope was positioned over my left shoulder and the needle injected not once, but twice, penetrating into the ligament capsule surrounding the rotator cuff, spraying out its contents of lidocaine and cortisone.

Then it was over and I was free to go, the shooting being executed according to orders.

Mom, my last thought was of how really neat it was to see my shoulder bones on the x-ray machine. Sorry.

ABOUT FLIPPIN' TIME!!! That mother-flippin', corkpullin' son of a flippin' dead dog mother-flippin' LOOSER has finelly come to the flippin' end he DERSERVED!

That bolthole has been a flippin' thorne in my side every since I can flippin' rembbmeber and I hope they throw his flippin' body in the nesarest dubmpster! He is a flippin' goof. No ones gonna miss him. No sir. There will probally be some ginormus celibrashuns all over when news gets out that he is gone forever. I bet it will be made a new nahsunal holiday.

As for that sniveling, snotty-nosed, drooling, gap-toothed, nit-ridden, maggot-tongued, pimple on the fair face of the human race, Shame McBride -- without the crutch of cheap beer he can barely face his image in a mirror much less a firing squad. I can picture it:

Shame is dragged into the yard screaming and crying by six sunken-chested, anemic guards. He is tied to a post so that he can remain upright instead of sliding down into the pile of human mucus he is. Not only does he accept a blindfold, he is the only person ever granted the privilege of a full body covering after he smokes his last cigarette and begs for more.

Still whimpering and cringing from the inevitable, he hears the commands:

"Reeeeeady!"

"Present!"

And Shame screams, "NO! NO! I'm too pretty!"

"FIRE!"

And fingers squeeze the triggers and the rifles fire. The body hood is ripped from Shame and blinking in the sunlight he sees a flag reading "BANG!" sticking out of the barrel of each plastic toy gun.

The OC of the Firing Party throws back his head and laughs, until a slight change of wind brings him the odor which betokens Shame's response....

There are three bones of the os coxae (hip bone) that come together to form the acetabulum. Contributing a little more than two-fifths of the structure is the ischium, which provides lower and side boundaries to the acetabulum. The ilium forms the upper boundary, providing a little less than two-fifths of the structure of the acetabulum. The rest is formed by the pubis, near the midline.

It is bounded by a prominent uneven rim, which is thick and strong above, and serves for the attachment of the acetabular labrum, which reduces its opening, and deepens the surface for formation of the hip joint. At the lower part of the acetabulum is the acetabular notch, which is continuous with a circular depression, the acetabular fossa, at the bottom of the cavity of the acetabulum. The rest of the acetabulum is formed by a curved, crescent-moon shaped surface, the lunate surface, where the joint is made with the head of the femur. Its counterpart in the pectoral girdle is the glenoid fossa.

And we all know what the punishment is for waste of bandwidth, don't we! A sentence of 30 days hard labor (or labour) in the dreaded bandwidth mines of West Dakota! Yes, 30 days with a shovel digging bandwidth ore from the fetid mosquito-infested caverns deep beneath the perpetually frozen Bandwidth Mountains. It's a fate worse than having Shane McBride for a neighbor (or neighbour).